


Footfalls

by Wicked_Seraph



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-20 22:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: Approximately 25 to 40 steps bridge the gap between their beds.Sylvain's learned how to read the percussion in the Prince's footsteps. And one days where Dimitri’s steps sound like war drums as he crosses the threshold, it’s not really him that he’s looking for.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 111





	Footfalls

Approximately 25 to 40 steps bridge the gap between their beds.

When it’s 25, Sylvain can hear each footstep mirroring the percussion of his own racing heart. Dimitri’s steps are bold. Decisive.

His hands are practiced, finding purchase in Sylvain’s hair as the focal point of his urgency is coaxed down an eager throat. Sometimes too eager; more than once Sylvain’s nearly gagged around him, emboldened by the rare, feral smirk on Dimitri’s lips as his own, slick with spit, fit snugly around the Prince’s cock. Dimitri is terrifying and irresistible when he can’t quite control himself, when his fingernails leave crescent-shaped reminders along Sylvain’s neck. 

He relishes these moments, even as his eyes water and his throat works around the intrusion, even as he chokes. It’s hard not to lose himself in it as he tastes a secretive, bitter tang against his tongue, feels the warmth of Dimitri’s skin and the soft golden curls between his thighs. In these moments, His Highness is no longer the demigod he seems to think is expected of him; he tastes and reacts just like any other man would.

“Just like that, Sylvain,” Dimitri murmurs, running his finger along the seam of Sylvain’s lips, transfixed as he admires the impression of his own lust bulge beneath a cheek. He meets Sylvain’s eyes, gaze unwavering and grin widening as he watches himself thrust deeper. Sylvain almost hates himself for the low whine of pleasure that escapes; he ruts crudely against the Prince’s boot, wedged between his legs, for some semblance of relief. It doesn’t take long to figure out that Dimitri  _likes_ seeing this kind of debasement; the way his cock hardens and pace quickens when Sylvain whimpers leaves little room for doubt. 

“You’re perfect like this,” he croons, eyelids fluttering shut as hard palate becomes soft palate, as his cock dips down Sylvain’s throat. “I know you can take more, can’t you? You’re practically begging for it.”

Sylvain is past the point of modesty or denial. His head bobs wantonly in tandem with Dimitri’s hips, saliva dripping from his chin as he wills himself to take Dimitri deeper, shamelessly stroking the damp outline of his own cock through his trousers. 

Twenty-five steps means that Dimitri is close to his breaking point; he’s already hard and dripping by the time he unbuttons his pants. Twenty-five steps means Sylvain has just enough time to drop to his knees obediently, but not enough to look presentable or attend to his own instinctive surge of desire. There’s little time for coquetry or hesitation. Quick steps make for a quick denouement; Dimitri is silent save for a sharp gasp of breath as his vice is purged into a needy vessel. Sylvain doesn’t tease him for it — not for how quickly Dimitri breaks, nor for the strange flavor he’ll never quite get used to. There is a heavy quiet between them that remains unbroken, punctuated only by their ragged breaths.

Dimitri cannot bear to look him in the eye, the kinetic impatience that dictated his steps entering sapped from him. His steps drag; the quicker Dimitri is to enter, the more slowly he leaves, his coat heavy with regret like leaden tar. Sylvain never tries to stop him; it feels suitably humiliating to be left like this, stained and debauched, cock painfully hard and untouched.

He knows that on days where Dimitri’s steps sound like war drums as he crosses the threshold, it’s not really  _him _ that he’s looking for. He reaches for a ponytail that isn’t there, embraces the imagined silhouette of breasts and hips, stutters vowels and honorifics that could never be strung to form Sylvain’s name. 

He can still taste the Prince’s lust coating his tongue well after he leaves.

* * *

_D__imitri’s poisoned me_ , he thinks warily. He can feel the ache like a dense void beneath his ribs, crushing his lungs. 

Twenty-five steps lead to hibernation. Each time Dimitri purges something from within himself; each time it’s left to bear noxious fruit. Dimitri’s color returns and Sylvain circles around the Prince’s radiance like a starved vulture. Food tastes like ash; water tastes like piss.  Women are grotesque and fragrant in a way that only necrotic things are. Dimitri is meat and mead and soft mewling behind closed doors; his scent is enough to make Sylvain’s mouth water. 

The boar remains fettered and muzzled after sundown. Sylvain can hear the lewd friction of flesh against flesh from the other side of the wall, Dimitri’s voice muffled as though hoping pillows and bedsheets are enough to swallow his shame. More than once, Sylvain has sat with his back against the cool stone, hand wrapped around his own desperation as he allows the Prince’s voice to wash over him like so many rough, calloused fingers, imagining what his self-loathing might taste like. Sylvain spills into his own hand countless times, until his head throbs and his muscles tremble from exhaustion — and still, it’s never enough. He tests the viscosity of his vice between his fingers, mingling shame and spit until he can no longer feel friction between the digits. He reaches between his legs, circling familiar paths until his cock feels alien within his grasp and his skin feels like it’s crawling from over-stimulation.

It burns. 

It  _hurts._

He runs a dampened finger around his entrance, circling it the way Dimitri does, imagining that the wetness teasing him is a warm tongue instead of cold, trembling fingers.

Sylvain moans softly, feeling himself melt as the pleasure builds, as the embers of something violent flicker until they ignite. He bites his tongue hard enough for him to taste copper instead of Dimitri’s name against his teeth.

It hurts.

It burns.

And still, it’s never enough.

* * *

Approximately 25 to 40 steps bridge the gap between their beds.

When it’s 40, Sylvain has to strain to hear for rustling fabric and an uncertain gait. Dimitri’s steps are tentative. Hesitant.

Hibernation and inertia crack beneath the weight of Sylvain’s abandon and Dimitri’s self-revulsion. Dimitri is always the first to break it; his voice is jarring in its meekness, a sharp contrast to the cocky snarl that had begun to etch itself into every fantasy Sylvain dared to allow himself. 

“Sylvain… I’m sorry,” Dimitri offers. He doesn’t have to ask what, precisely, the Prince seeks forgiveness for.

“Yeah, man, of course,” he replies breathlessly, closing the gap between them to meet Dimitri’s lips, still bitter with regret and apology. 

When it's 40 steps, Dimitri is meticulous to the point of cruelty, lips and tongue claiming him as though to commit each dip and swell to memory. Sylvain can feel Dimitri’s teeth against his neck, tongue circling his nipples curiously until his hips buck with a spasm of heat. The Prince is nothing if not efficient, sliding the other’s pants down as he sucks and nips further, arms caging Sylvain beneath him.

He clenches his eyes shut. He can almost feel the Prince’s gaze on him, hawklike and shrewd; to meet it directly is far too much, like staring too boldly at the sun. It’s already taking every fiber of willpower to reign in the surging pleasure and avoid unraveling right on the spot. 

He feels warmth between his thighs, dangerously close to his cock; he can tell how badly he’s leaking precome already by how acutely he feels Dimitri’s breath, and oh God, he can  _hear_ it: the slickness of lips parting, of a tongue lolling out greedily. He presses a hand against his mouth, biting into the meat of his palm as he tries vainly to stifle a moan.

(_he tries not to remember how Dimitri likes his meat pink and rare, nearly quivering on the plate_ ) 

“Hands down,” Dimitri snaps, voice husky in a way that sends a jolt pleasure straight to Sylvain’s cock. “Let me hear how good it feels.”

Sylvain lowers his hand dutifully, swearing quietly under his breath as every single wretched fantasy and half-formed thought falls apart at the seams. Dimitri’s mouth is hot and wet and  _perfect_ , tight heat and a tongue working furiously around him in a way that has him seeing stars; he tests his luck by pressing just a bit deeper into Dimitri’s mouth and is rewarded with a low, satisfied chuckle.

_Goddess, forgive me._

Sylvain prides himself on being a gentleman. He thrusts gently at first, and Dimitri seems pleased but unfazed, shifting his jaw to better accommodate him; there is just enough friction to make sparks of pleasure erupt near the base of spine. He presses in slowly, expecting resistance as the head brushes against the roof of the Prince’s mouth, dangerously close to the back of his throat. Dimitri’s mouth stretches crudely around Sylvain, nose pressed against the downy, reddish trail of hair between his thighs — and still, he shows no sign of discomfort, eyes bright with arousal and challenge. Slow, tentative thrusts become relentless and greedy; Sylvain's hands grasp around the base of Dimitri’s skull, hips flush with his jaw. He can feel Dimitri’s throat work as he swallows around the head of Sylvain’s cock with every thrust, loosening at just the perfect moment so he can withdraw. 

“Gods, Dimitri,” Sylvain hisses as he buries himself inside Dimitri’s throat over and over, the Prince’s hair tangled in his fingers like a leash. “Where the hell did you learn to do this?”

Dimitri pulls off of him with a pop, licking the corner of his mouth; the gesture is somehow prim and obscene. 

“I wonder,” he mutters cryptically, nipping at Sylvain’s thighs. “But I had other things in mind… if you’re amenable.”

“Such as?”

Dimitri grins, all teeth and innuendo; there’s something vaguely threatening about it; his stomach flutters, even while a warning flare of nausea churns within it. “Playing coy doesn’t suit you.”

“Maybe not, but I like hearing you say it,” Sylvain replies easily, leaning in to press his lips against Dimitri’s; the kiss is brief and chaste, soft lips replaced by fingers pressed insistently against his mouth. He makes the mistake of meeting Dimitri’s eyes and hates how instinctively his cock twitches and face pales in spite of his confusion.

“Stop?” he guesses.

Dimitri strokes his lower lip, pressing the tip of his finger in just barely; Sylvain flicks his tongue against it, tasting salt (_not__ heme, not now_). 

“Suck.”

Sylvain obeys; this isn’t the first time he’s done this, but hearing Dimitri’s voice become hungry and demanding is too delicious to pass up. 

Fingers in his mouth are replaced with a ravenous tongue; dry fingers tracing slow, lazy circuits along his cock are replaced by wet fingers pumping inside of him slowly — so agonizingly slow. This, he expects; 40 steps means Dimitri is patient and deliberate, fingers stroking only enough to stir pleasure. 

A part of him misses the ache, the burn when Dimitri favors gentleness; he’s never quite sure what to do with himself when pleasure and tenderness are the only things he has to distract himself. Pain is easier to process.

But it’s not just about him; Dimitri’s hands are cautious, as if hoping to stitch together the parts of him gleefully torn to shreds the last time they were this close. He wonders how much Imperial blood the Prince imagines staining his hands. He’s too proud to ask for reassurances, feigning indifference even as the way his eyes anxiously flit back and forth, searching for a furrowed brow or a clenched jaw.

_That’s fine_, Sylvain thinks.  _He’s got pride enough for the both of us_ .

“D-Dimitri,  _please,_ ” he stammers, allowing his voice to tremble an octave higher than usual. 

He feels something blunt and deliciously hot press against his entrance — just enough to steal his breath, but not enough to suggest anything other than a tease. Dimitri slots himself between the globes of Sylvain’s ass, sliding his cock along the cleft between. 

He feels the head breach him ever so slightly, just barely past the rim, and Sylvain has to will himself not to scream from the frustration of it, from the terror of it.

(_how horribly familiar this is, the scent of sex and sweat and stale blood_ )

“Please, I can’t—

“Please what?”

“Don’t make me say it,” he pants; the friction from his cock brushing against Dimitri’s stomach is maddening and does nothing to distract him from the promising heat elsewhere. He wonders how upset Dimitri would be if he followed temptation to its natural conclusion.

He hears a soft laugh and puff of breath against his ear, but whatever pretty words Dimitri might have uttered are swallowed by a drawn-out moan.

Searing heat — delicious, slow, searing heat. Dimitri’s hands settle around each of his thighs, spreading Sylvain’s legs. He can feel every inch: the swell of the head and the reprieve thereafter; were it not for the overwhelming need he might choke on the shame of how easily his body accepts the Prince’s lust. Instead, he finds himself whimpering pathetically, canting his hips to coax Dimitri deeper, to seek friction amidst the impossible slickness.

“So impatient, Sylvain,” Dimitri chides softly, withdrawing for only a moment before thrusting back into him, words punctuated with every snap of his hips. “So very… very… impatient.”

Both know that impatience is the only response Dimitri will accept. Anything less than wanton need would be insufficient to silence the shrieking doubt reverberating around the Prince’s skull. Anything less would be an inequitable exchange.

_Take back what I stole from you. Purge what I poisoned you with._

And so he does, devouring pleasure upon pleasure until his body trembles with it, until his skin is flushed and sweat-damp with it. The nameless thing between them binds and guides their strange dance like a marionette’s strings. It’s difficult to tell precisely where he ends and Dimitri begins, desire and sensation bleeding into one another as though they’d fused into some crude, undulating thing of writhing, bitter parts. The vision of it in his mind is something eldritch and terrifying and fitting. Dimitri’s teeth nip and bite, and Sylvain thinks of a boar’s tusks, eager to rend the flesh from his bones. 

Dimitri’s spotless hands still reek of blood and gore, even as they wrap around his cock as though to milk the pleasure from him; he can taste the pestilence between them, permeating their mingled breaths. The feverish pleasure and disease reaches a crescendo, building and building until his vision is stained white, u ntil the only word his mouth can form is Dimitri's name like a prayer, like a curse.

Dimitri, 

Dimitri, 

Dimitri.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm still working (glacially slow) through the other routes in the game, so please do excuse any narrative or characterization incongruousness.
> 
> As always, constructive critique is welcomed and encouraged!


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